Page 34 of Broken on the Mountain
God.She's swept in like a well-funded hurricane, all power suit and fake smiles, a garment bag swinging from her perfectly manicured hand like the sword of death.
"Hi, Mom."
She hangs the garment bag on my coat rack with the care and attention usually reserved for religious artifacts. "I brought your dress for the Children's Hospital Gala. Valentino. Absolutely stunning. You'll make quite the impression."
"About that—"
"And did you get my message? I've arranged lunch at The Peninsula. Noon. Maxwell Pemberton will be joining us." Sheglides to my kitchen, heels clicking on marble like a countdown timer for my demise. "Delightful fellow, his family is in shipping. Your father states he has an excellent portfolio, and should be a perfect match."
I swallow a laugh that tastes like rebellion.I'm not a merger. I'm a woman.
But I try on the old 'perfect daughter' role anyway: posture straight, chin up, smile that fits like shoes in the wrong size. After the weekend I've just had, suddenly, it pinches something vital.
"Lunch, yes. I can do that. Escort… no."
Mom's blink is a gunshot in the quiet.
"I'm sorry?"
"I'll have lunch. Catch up with you. But I'm not interested in Maxwell Pemberton. Or his excellent… portfolio."
She sets her purse on my counter, right next to the wildflower guide. Her gaze lands on it like a hawk spotting prey.
"What's this?"
"A book."
“I can see that, dear.” She leafs through it, all business, and, thankfully, misses Chase’s handwriting in the borders. “Wildflowers? Since when do you care about… nature?”
"Since I visited Brooke."
"Ah yes. Your little mountain sabbatical." She sets the book down, dismissive. "How is Dr. Shields? I heard down the vine that's she's intent on playing pioneer woman?"
"She's happy, Mom."
"Happy." She tastes the word like it's spoiled. "Happiness is wonderful, darling. But it doesn't build legacies or secure futures. Speaking of which—"
Her eyes track to the hiking boots by the door. Then the flannel draped over my sofa. Then back to me.
I watch her catalogue every deviation from the Piper Whitman she curated.
"Oh, I understand. Well, I too had my fantasies when I was younger. But never mind, dear." Her smile is warm honey over steel. "This mountain phase will pass. We'll get you back on track now you're home."
Back on track.
Like I'm a train that derailed instead of a woman who finally found her own direction.
"I'm not off track, Mom."
"Of course not." She pulls out her phone, scrolling through what I know is a color-coded schedule of my life for the next month. "Now, after lunch we have your fitting at Saks, then drinks with the Vanderbilts—Catherine's daughter just got engaged, excellent opportunity there for you to network—and Thursday we're having dinner with the Ashfords. Their son just made partner."
Every word is a brick in the wall she's building around me.
I think about Chase. The way he made restraint feel like care. The exact opposite of this performative 'more, more, more' world my parents push. He didn't try to schedule me, or optimize me, or turn me into better optics.
He just wanted me. Just me.
"Mom." I take a breath. "I appreciate the effort. But I need some space to figure out whatIwant. And you remember I have ajob,right?"
